Scars that Remain
by lightning-dream
Summary: When a new student arrives at Bryton Secondary School in London, England, she brings with her an evil that consumes the school. A nightmare that no one can possibly hope to wake up from seizes the students, haunting their waking and sleeping moments. No one is spared from this living nightmare, certainly not Bryton's consulting detective, or his friends and family.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

**Summary: **When a new student arrives at Bryton Secondary School in London, England, she brings with her an evil that consumes the school. A nightmare that no one can possibly hope to wake up from seizes the students, haunting their waking and sleeping moments. No one is spared from this living nightmare, certainly not Bryton's consulting detective, or his friends and family.

**Author's Note: **This story is a rewrite of a story I began a few months ago. I plan to make it much more exciting than the previous story could hope to be. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

_WARNING: _GRAPHIC VIOLENCE/GORE

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter One **

Nancy hates being defined as an insomniac. An insomniac is someone who wishes to fall into Sleep's tight embrace, someone who does not see Sleep for what he really is, someone who wishes they could fall trance to Sleep's siren call into the dark, cold waters he loves to stalk. Nancy sees who he really is. Sleep is death. Sleep is cold and lonely and empty. Sleep hoards a multitude of horrors, willing to release any number of them onto anyone if he feels the need to. Sleep is a gateway drug to madness, happily waiting to pull you into its icy claws before ripping your mind to shreds and tossing you back into unforgiving reality.

No, insomniac is not the right word to define Nancy Thompson. _Survivor_. Nancy did not seek Sleep's grip, she fled from it, survived it. She ran far, far away where the cold fingers of Sleep would never attempt to harm her again, where Sleep and its demons would be forced to bide in the hell of Springwood while she resided safely in London. Not even Sleep's shadow, nor the claws of its demons stretched to London. Here, Nancy could be safe. Here, Nancy could dream. Her dreams would finally be freed of blood-red razor claws and sinister shadows and silhouettes stalking every corner. She no longer fears the shadows, for the shadows keep their distance. For good, it seems.

The girl shifts in her too-soft bed, hoping to find some degree of comfort. After living in London for two weeks, she would have hoped she'd be used to her aunt's too-soft mattresses. Nancy already moved beds three times but found no solace from the fluffy cushioning that seemed to want to suck her body into its feathered depths. Must be a European thing.

Nancy punches her pillow agitatedly, making it bleed feathers before resting her head on it again. The red clock on her nightstand blinks midnight at her. It seems as though the next day at school is going to be one she spends stumbling through before asking her cousin, Mary Morstan, if she can copy her homework. Mary would gripe a bit and lecture Nancy on getting a good night's sleep, but eventually, Mary would succumb and give Nancy the notes. Nancy never had to beg

_(leave me alone oh god what did I do to you leave me alone just leave me alone)_

too terribly hard.

Moonlight drifts through the opened curtains and stars dance in the sky. She loves to sleep with the window open. Too many nights did she spend wondering if she would ever see the stars again. The cool wind that breezes into the room comforts her and aides her in inching toward sleep for the first time tonight. She allows her striking blue eyes to close and she sifts through her sluggish thoughts listlessly. The random thoughts that come to her are soothing in their mundane nature: remember to get a dress for prom on Saturday, don't forget to do the science homework or else her pale-skinned lab partner will be pissed, wonder what's for breakfast tomorrow. Nancy missed these dull, mundane things to worry about. No longer does she have to be concerned about how many cups of coffee to make, how many Wake-Aid pills to take and when she can take more, how loud can the TV be at 3 o'clock in the morning without waking anyone,

_(how many times I can watch my friends die without going crazy)_

and how, in God's name, will she _ever_ manage to get some damned sleep. Those thoughts are behind her, buried six feet deep in an unmarked grave to never be touched again. The excitement is over and it's time to embrace the norm. Nancy does so happily.

Repeating the thought until she feels warm and comforted, Nancy submits herself slowly into Sleep's arms.

**/oOo\**

"_Shh_, John! You're going to get us caught."

Mary's words are smothered by John Watson bringing his lips to hers. She makes no attempt to shove him away and instead intertwines her manicured fingernails into his blond hair. John wraps his arms around her waist and trace his mouth alone her collarbone. She tastes of cinnamon and smells of peppermint. It's an intoxicating and deadly combination, one that only fuels John's adoration for her. A small moaning sound escapes her throat and it's all John can do to not take her then and there. But, the two agreed that they would wait until after graduation. Two months away. John only hopes he can make it that long.

Graduation has been the last thing on Mary's mind, however, she's been revolving all her thoughts around prom this Saturday: the dress, the hair, the makeup, and whether or not she and John will win Prom King and Prom Queen. Though he'd never admit it to her, John hoped they didn't win. The attention didn't sound very alluring, it was bad enough when it was announced the two were nominated (no doubt by Harry, who probably thought it'd all be very funny to watch John squirm in the limelight). It looked as though the two were going to win, as none of the other nominees quite teed up. Sally Donovan had been nominated with her boyfriend, something-Anderson, as were Molly Sawyer and her new boyfriend, Jim. Sally and Something-Anderson were nice enough, but they didn't _look _together as nicely as Mary and John did, neither did Molly and Jim. It looked as though John would be forced to enter the limelight on Saturday.

_God, Sherlock would get a kick out of that_, he thinks as he watches Mary change into her pajamas. _If he bothers to come, of course._ Sherlock would probably rather spend the night with his brother than go to prom, where others would whisper about him and how he would be sitting in a corner alone and somehow managing to ignore all of them. John could never manage to do that and has no idea how Sherlock can stand having spent all of his years in school being forced to act as though people weren't pointing and whispering and laughing as you walked past, being forced to act as though you didn't give a rat's arse. Perhaps Sherlock didn't have to force it, perhaps it came naturally. John never could tell.

"Is Sherlock coming to prom?" Mary asks. Not for the first time, John wonders if she can read his mind.

He shakes his head and stands, going to her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I seriously doubt it." He feels Mary relax.

"That's good," she says.

"Good?" She sounds a bit too relieved. Mary looks at him and bats her green eyes. For once, John does not feel like swimming inside them. _(Good?)_

"Well, you know, John, he just, he," she struggles a moment, waiting for John to forgive and forget, but he offers her no salvation, "he doesn't fit in, John, you know that. He's _weird_."

"He's my friend." John is surprised at how hard his voice is, surprised at how hard his heart is hammering inside his chest. _What is wrong with me? _

Mary wriggles free of him. "He's still weird and he's _mean_. You should have heard the things he was saying about Sally, it was just awful."

"Sally probably deserved it." _Why am I so angry? _

She bristles. "Sherlock Holmes is a fucking _freak_. I don't know why you chose to hang out with him. He doesn't have to be your pity case, John."

"Pity case?" His heart is racing now and his face feels hot. "I chose to hang around Sherlock because, unlike _your _friends, he's not a superficial, fake bastard. And if you just gave him a bloody chance, you would see that too." Before Mary can recover, John walks out of her room.

His hands are still shaking as he walks down the hallway. His ears are roaring so loudly that he barely notices the sounds of whimpering coming from Nancy's room. John looks at her light blue door. The whimpers get louder and she sounds like she's begging for help. She must be having another nightmare. Mary mentioned something to him about Nancy having sleep problems before moving in with her. John couldn't blame Nancy for having nightmares. After hearing what happened to her and her friends in Springwood, John is certain his dreams would be plagued every night as well.

Deciding to wake Nancy and free her of her nightmares, John opens the door. His sapphire eyes fall on Nancy's bed and his stomach feels as though it fell to his feet. Nancy is in her bed, sheets thrown about the room and clothes in tatters. Tears mix with blood on her face from where one of her eyes appears to have been gouged out. Her mouth is open in a scream, but only hoarse whimpers escape. John is frozen. He can't move. He can't think. He just stares at her as she extends a hand to him. He vaguely notes that three of her fingers are missing.

Before she can make another desperate whimper for help, Nancy's throat is ripped out and a horrid gurgle escapes her throat before she falls silent forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

_WARNING: Some gore_

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Two **

It's 1:30 AM when Sherlock's phone begins to ring. He glances up from _Places for Dead Bodies _at the house phone. The caller ID blinks Morstan. Sherlock considers letting it continue ringing, but then there's the possibility of Mycroft answering. That would be more disastrous than having to converse with a Morstan. But just barely. Sherlock takes the phone and tucks it between his cheek and shoulder.

"Hello." Hopefully Morstan hears the barely-contained growl in his tone and decides to hang up rather than bother him. Sherlock blinks when, instead of hearing Morstan's sickly-sweet voice, he hears another.

"Sherlock?" John's tone is quiet but beneath it hides a barely concealed panic and terror. It would have been less unnerving had Sherlock heard him stammering and crying. He snaps his book closed and takes the phone tightly in his hand.

"John? What is it? What's wrong?" He can hear John breathing heavily on the other end, as if he's trying to keep himself from throwing up.

"It's Mary's cousin Nancy, she-she," it's only now when his voice cracks, "she was _slaughtered_, Sherlock."

The pale teenager leans back and goes back to resting the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He presses his slender hands together and stares out his window.

"Can you get any photographs?"

It's clear that John is caught off guard by Sherlock's request. "What?"

"Can you get any photographs?" Sherlock says, a bit more impatiently this time.

"Sherlock, you've got to be bloody _kidding_."

"I do not kid," says Sherlock shortly. John sighs exasperatedly

"I'm not going to take pictures of her body, Sherlock," he all but hisses, "you're mad to even consider that I might!" A smirk plays at Sherlock's lips.

"Send them to my phone when you're done."

He hangs up.

**-/oOo\-**

Despite the gruesome reason behind the school's subdued spirit the next day, Sherlock feels relieved that he won't have to put up with everyone's annoying exuberance. The sky reflects the mood that hangs over Bryton Secondary School, dark clouds seeming to grow larger and closer by the moment, as if eager to reach their smoky hands forward and grab the school before swallowing it whole. Rain threatens and thunder rumbles dully and the majority of the student body chose to spend their free time before the morning bell to take refuge inside.

Sherlock is one of the few that chose to stay outside. He sits beneath a large oak tree in front of the school's towering main office building. His sleek phone rests in his hands and he studies the photos that John managed to send him last night. Ever-reliable, John was able to take some rather detailed photographs before the police arrived. Some of the photos are rather blurry, likely due to John's hand trembling as he took the photo out of fright or shock, and, for that, Sherlock tries to not get irritated by the blurry quality of some photos.

He's studying a photo of Nancy's neck now. His dark eyebrows knit closer together and he makes the picture larger on his mobile screen. Her neck is horribly torn up by what appears to be the signature handiwork of knives. Not just one knife, however; this is the handiwork of multiple knives, three, or maybe four. Sherlock frowns. John called again last night after the police had left and relayed Sherlock exactly what he had seen. No signs of forced entry, no murder weapon found, no masked man reported by scared little old ladies to be dashing through backyards. Nancy was just murdered. Simple as that.

Sherlock smiles. It's never as simple as that.

He glances up and slips his phone into his pocket as he sees John walk toward the building, Morstan at his side. His stormy eyes watch the two of them as they grow nearer. He half expects (half hopes?) for John to walk to him, but his companion doesn't even glance in his direction. Morstan is demanding all of his attention. Judging by the way she clings to his side and the way her makeup is smeared on her face, she's been sobbing over her dead cousin all morning and expects strong John, brave John, to hold her close and lie and tell her it's going to be okay. Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes his phone out again, replacing the disgusting image of Mary and John with Nancy's gouged eye socket. It doesn't work and the image continues to dance in front of his eyes. His bright mood is quickly extinguished and he's almost grateful when the first bell rings.

He slings his bag over his shoulder and walks into the school. Through the idle chatter that fills the halls during passing time, Sherlock can hear John call out his name. He pulls the collar of his coat over his neck tighter and walks faster to his first period class, losing John in a sea of void faces. He'll have to lie to John later that he didn't hear him call his name, have to force a smile as Mary kisses John's face, his neck, his lips, have to convince himself that John is taken, that John is straight, that John is happy with Mary. Simple as that.

Sherlock scowls. It's never as simple as that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

_WARNING: HORROR/SUSPENSE, SOME PEDOPHILLIA, GORE _

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Three **

Mary isn't accustomed to receiving so many side glances and whispers following her as she walks down the hallway. She pushes her unwashed hair out of her face and studies the cracks in the floors as she walks to her final class of the day. She's forced to stop when a boy who sits next to her in maths steps in front of her. She looks up at him. He smiles softly, but his bright blue eyes are cold.

"Hey, Mary." He touches her shoulder gently. His skin feels rough against hers. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry about your cousin." Mary nods lightly and mumbles something that vaguely sounds like a thank you before moving around him. As she begins to walk forward again, other boys begin to reach out to her. Some say gentle words of false-comfort, some brush her arm or her skirt with their hands. She walks faster, her heart beginning to beat harder and her hair on the back of her neck rising.

More and more boys are moving toward her. Mary feels their hands grazing her thigh, grabbing her fingers, intertwining and tugging harshly on her hair, gripping her backpack, digging fingernails into her skin. Their words are no longer soft, their tones no longer gentle. They all have the same bright blue eyes. All of their hands are rough and heat radiates from their bodies.

Sweat is dripping down Mary's face as she yanks free of their grip and forces her way through the crowd of boys. Panic is beginning to slowly grip her chest and she runs down the hallway. The temperature is slowly rising and it's getting harder to breathe. Mary's heart hammers harder in her chest when she sees that the boys are following her through the winding halls, their stride slow and taunting. Mary stumbles faster through the halls, the sweat dripping into her eyes and the haze of steam and heat making it almost impossible to see straight. In the confusion of desperation, she throws open the first door she sees and slams it closed behind her.

She takes a moment to catch her breath and for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the classroom she now takes refuge in. Mary frowns when, her eyes finally adjust, and she sees that it's not a classroom that she stands in, not even a janitor's storage room or a bathroom. She is standing at the top of a set of winding steel steps at what appears to be the entrance to a sort of basement or boiler room. Steam hisses at her from pipes winding around the walls. The heat in the halls may have been stifling, but the heat in the boiler room is crushing. Mary decides she'd rather hide from the boys in another room and turns to open the door. She blanches when she's faced with a concrete wall.

Mary jumps violently when a loud pitched _SKRREEEEEEE _reverberates off the pipes and boilers. Chills erupt down her spine and settle in her gut. She clamps her hands over her ears only to discover that the horrible sound seems to be reverberating inside her skull as well as the concrete walls. She begins to tremble when her eyes fall on a dark silhouette of a man beginning to stride out from a row of machines that are hissing and sputtering. She sees his foot begin to emerge from the row and decides she has no desire to see who the foot belongs to.

The girl sprints down the staircase and begins winding through the maze of machines and boilers and pipes. A laugh follows her footsteps, icy, dark, and scornful. Slow footsteps can be heard beneath her pounding ones and she glances back long enough to see the silhouette following her. His stride matches that of the boys who unnerved her so. He extends his right arm and she can see the gleam of steel catching whatever dim glow that lights the boiler room. His fingers seem to have claws of razor-sharp steel and he grazes them against the pipes. Sparks sputter and fly from the metal and the horrible _SKREEEEEEEEEE _rips through Mary's eardrums. The sparks illuminate his face briefly and send shadows dancing across his features, like that of a dying ember. Mary dares to stare long enough to see his ice-cold eyes before forcing her sluggish legs to run faster. The heat is making is near impossible to breathe and she no longer has enough water in her body to even sweat. Despite being in rather good physical shape, Mary is panting and each breath feels like knives cutting into her lungs. Her blond hair clings to her face, damp with humidity and her skin clammy with horror. Horror over the unknown man that follows her, over his razor claws and the cold laugh that echoes from him, over the confusion and panic and sheer desperation of just _getting out_.

"Oh, there will be no getting out, I'm afraid." The man's voice sends more waves of cold terror to her gut. She can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, "I think I like it here! So many new children for me to play with. Like _you_."

At his words, Mary's feet are yanked out from under her and she cries out as her jaw slams into the concrete floor. She feels the man stepping over her and kneeling over her back. Mary trembles violently and small whimpering sounds come out of her pale lips. The heat allows no tears to come, but dry sobs of terror wrack her body. She can feel his hand press to the small of her back and his lips graze her ear. It's all she can do not to scream when his razor claws dance across her cheek and lips.

His voice comes out in a silky purr in her ear, "Don't worry, Mary. I'm not going to hurt you, alright?" He suddenly grips her blond hair and yanks upward harshly. She yelps and whimpers. His tongue flicks her ear and she groans. "I need you to lead me to some more lambs before I'm done with you."

Mary screams in pain as a blast of steam hits her face, her screams drowned out by the man's horrible, insane laughter.

**-/oOo\-**

It's quite a shock for everyone in Ms. Isbell's math class when Mary screams. Anderson just about falls out of his seat when she releases the loud and shrill cry of horror and pain. Isbell is quickly by Mary's side and touches the girl's trembling hand gently. Mary jumps violently at her touch and when she looks at her teacher, her eyes are wide and filled with tears.

"Are you okay, Mary?" Isbell asks, her tone cautious but gentle. Mary glances around and sees everyone's eyes on her. Some people are looking at her as if she's insane, other looking at her with a mixture of pity and concern. She notices that Sherlock Holmes' gaze is neither. His stare is analytical and almost complacent. Mary forces her eyes back to her teacher's face.

"I'm sorry," she manages to squeak. Mary clears her throat and says louder, "I just fell asleep and had a bad dream."

Isbell seems torn between scolding Mary for sleeping in class and comforting her.

It comes as a relief to the both of them when the bell rings.

Sherlock is the first out the door, studying Mary closely as she walks out. He ignores the cold glare she sends him, as if he somehow caused her outburst in class. Nothing he notes from her is particularly unusual, aside from the fact that her face is rather shiny looking, but that could be because she's humiliated. Sherlock studies her walking down the hallway and frowns as he notices that she shrinks away from the boys that mill around the halls. He decides that she probably had a nightmare of her cousin's killer and her mind created the killer to look like a mixture of the dozens of males she sees every day. He vaguely wonders if his face became the killer's face for a moment.

At that instant, John walks out from around the corner. When he sees Sherlock, his face lights up. Sherlock notices that he just had PE and that his blond hair is still sticking up around his ears from when he showered. It's rather endearing.

Sherlock is forced to push those thoughts away at John's greeting of, "Hey, Sherlock. Have you seen Mary?"

Normally he would have snapped at John to find his own girlfriend, but this time, Sherlock takes joy in saying, "She left already. Probably in an attempt to hide from the humiliation associated with her outburst in maths."

John's eyebrows furrow and his lips purse slightly as they always do when he is confused or concerned. It's clear he wants Sherlock to elaborate, but his companion instead pulls out his phone, turning his attention away from John. He begins to scroll through the photographs of Nancy again.

"I need you to get me into Mary's house," he says. John sputters a bit and Sherlock continues, "Oh, don't act like it's such a big deal. Invite yourself to dinner, you know, to _comfort _Mary or something." He practically hisses the word. "Open the back door and I'll go in while you eat and look at Nancy's room myself. No offense, but your photographs are bloody terrible."

"You're mad." John sounds more at awe than appalled.

Sherlock smiles lightly and puts his phone away, walking to the doors. "Text me when you're ready."

Though Sherlock doesn't look back, he knows that John is suppressing a smile. He walks through the doors and into the school's parking lot. Sherlock is walking toward the sidewalk and debating whether or not he should read on his way home when he notices Mary walking ahead of him with her friend, Sally Donovan. He's about to put in his headphones and ignore them when he hears his name emerge in their conversation. Out of curiosity, Sherlock puts his hands into his pockets and listens closely.

"You should have seen the way he was _staring _at me Sally," Mary says. "He looked like he was enjoying it, watching me so upset like that. He was like that earlier today, when he was watching John and I get to school."

Sherlock admits that she is correct in that assessment.

"You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he _was _enjoying it," Sally says. "This whole thing with Nancy. You've seen how much he's obsessed with murder and psychopaths. Last week, when we dissected frogs in science, he was telling Mr. White that he thought frogs were too boring and that we should go to the morgue and dissect _humans _instead."

_That's because frogs _are_ boring_, Sherlock thinks irritably.

"Sherlock _is_ a psychopath," Mary says, "that's why he's so obsessed with them. He's mad, absolutely mad."

"Bet he's glad Nancy is dead," Sally says. "I heard him snapping at her in science to stop messing up during our last lab. The two of them were partners, you know. He was telling her to stop getting so upset over seeing the frog's intestines and blood."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he was the one that killed her," Mary says quietly. "Or if he killed someone someday." Sally rests a hand on her friend's shoulder a moment and the two fall silent.

Sherlock allows them to get far ahead of him. He doesn't pull out his book. All he does is allow their words to bounce around in his skull.

**-/oOo\-**

The gloom of death hangs heavily in the Morstan house that afternoon. Nancy's father is gone from dinner, Mary told John that Mr. Thompson left the house in a grief-stricken daze after seeing Nancy's body and hasn't shown up since. John tries to be as normal as he can with Mary's mother and sister and they seem grateful for it, talking as cheerfully as they can as the four of them hang around the kitchen as they wait for dinner to finish. Mary is sitting next to John at the counter, her hand clasped tightly in his. She looks rather pale and worn. John asked her earlier about what happened in maths and she briefly described her nightmare to him. He could hardly blame her for having a nightmare after what had just happened.

When Mary's mother tells them to wash up, John excuses himself from Mary and her sister, saying he wants his jacket that he left in the living room. He slips away from the two and goes to the laundry room, unlocking the back door. John jumps when it swings open almost instantly and Sherlock strides in silently. Breathing deeply to return his heart beat back to normal, John closes the door. When he turns to Sherlock, he is already gone. John curses him and walks out just in time to see the flap of Sherlock's coat disappearing up the stairs.

As John sighs and returns to the kitchen to feign innocence with the Morstans, Sherlock goes to Nancy's room. He slips his favorite black gloves onto his hands and opens the door. It creaks and he stiffens. Sherlock listens for any sounds of alarm downstairs, but the sounds drifting from the kitchen are pleasant and boringly normal. He opens the door wider and slips inside.

Nancy's body is gone, but the imprint of her body on the bed is outlined by rips in the sheets and blood. Sherlock goes to the bed and kneels to examine the rips. Some are rough and messy, clearly made by Nancy's fingernails, no doubt from when she was thrashing and struggling with her murderer. But, some of them are clean and precise, no loose seams or broken threads to be found. These were made by a knife, or, judging by the number of clean tears, several knives.

Sherlock continues to examine the bed, finding small pieces of flesh on some of the bloodstains. He shifts the sheets slightly and sees a bloody fingernail near the pillows, bits of flesh and gore still clinging to it. She must have been clawing at her attacker's face. Sherlock picks it up with a pair of tweezers and puts it into a plastic bag, slipping the bag into his coat.

He's just about to examine under the bed when he hears the door open behind him. He hears a gasp.

"How did you get in here?" Mary's tone is shrill and accusatory. Sherlock stands and turns to her. Her eyes are bright with anger, her hands clenches into fists at her sides, and her mouth set into a thin line. Sherlock buttons up the last button on his coat.

"Through the door."

If possible, Mary's mouth sets into a thinner line. "Why are you here?"

Her conversation with Sally comes to him. Though at the time, she may have been saying Sherlock killed Nancy to further insult him then, it's clear that the idea has latched onto her brain now and that his being here only confirmed the theory.

Sherlock dons a cold smile. He looks at her, eyes icy and irate, tone dripping in sarcasm. "I just wanted to come back, you know how it is for us _psychopaths_. We love to relive murders."

"What do you-"

"You wouldn't be surprised, would you?" Sherlock cuts her off, his tone hardening. "In fact, it would come as a relief if you found out that big-bad-Sherlock-Holmes killed your cousin because he's just that big of a murder-obsessed _freak_."

"I _never _said-"

But Sherlock doesn't care what Mary never said. He walks past her and out the door. Sherlock passes John on his way down the stairs. John reaches out to him, but Sherlock shoves his hand away and walks out the front door into the raining night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

_WARNING: VIOLENCE/GORE, SOME PEDOPHILIA, CHARACTER DEATH _

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Four**

When the final bell rings on Friday afternoon, the excited buzz over prom is almost enough to cloud the stifling gloom over Nancy's murder. Girls exchange where they're getting manicures and pedicures and getting their hair triple dyed and so on and so forth. Guys exchange what car they'll be picking their dates up in: a limo, their dad's old Ford Angela, their birthday present from their rich uncle, so on and so forth. It's all so boring to Sherlock he'd rather jump off the roof of the school than continue listening to their rambling.

Unfortunately, John is among those who are rambling. Though his conversation about prom is not dripping with pride and superiority as it is with other boys, rather his conversation is filled with nerves and worry. As he and Sherlock begin walking down the sidewalk toward John's home, John dumps all of his worry and doubt on Sherlock. Even though Sherlock would do anything to discuss anything else, he's somewhat grateful that prom has kept John from discussing last night's events with him.

Sherlock didn't truly understand why Mary's accusation bothered him so deeply. Normally, he would have ignored it entirely and forgotten about it by the next day. The only possible conclusion he was able to come up with as he tossed and turned in bed, was that, since it was Mary who accused him, she would relay her theory to John, and there was always the, no matter how slim it may be, possibility that John would allow the idea to fester in his mind and allow it to grow and he would accept it as the truth.

"Do you think I'll win Prom King?" John asks, jarring Sherlock from his thoughts. "I don't deserve to win Prom King, someone else does. Not that Jim guy though, he's pretty creepy, but maybe Anderson, oh, but he can be a dick sometimes, maybe not him…"

Sherlock exhales irritably and is about to snap at John to shut up when his next words make Sherlock stop.

"You're coming to prom, right?"

Sherlock looks at him. His stormy eyes meet John's clear, sapphire ones and there, he finds genuine hope and sincerity. He's contemplating swimming in his sapphire eyes before he forces himself to turn away.

"I don't see why I would want to," he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "It sounds horribly dull to me: sitting at a table and watching dates grind against each other and spike their drinks and act stupid and drunken." Sherlock didn't mention that he also did not want to be forced to watch John and Mary win Prom King and Queen and watch them kiss and hold each other and be the oh-so-perfect couple that it bound to win "Cutest Couple" in the yearbook. "Why do you even want me to come?" Surely John knows how surly and cross he'll be if he went to prom.

"Because, Sherlock, you're my friend," John says, "And you being there would make it a lot less boring."

Though Sherlock doubts that even _he _could prevent prom from being boring, he relents slightly. "I don't have a suit."

"You can rent one before tomorrow." John sounds hopeful and eager now. "Please, Sherlock. It would really mean a lot to me."

_It would mean a lot to me. You're my friend. _

Sherlock's hands clench in his pockets to keep them from grabbing John's shoulders and shaking him until he realizes just how much he means to Sherlock, how much it pains and infuriates Sherlock to see him with someone who does not deserve him, and how much it frustrates him that John deserves to be with him, but they never can be.

Instead, Sherlock says, "I'm not wearing a tie for you."

At John's grin, Sherlock has to clutch the inside of his pockets and look ahead.

_God damnit, John Watson. _

**-/oOo\-**

Saturday morning and afternoon melt away too quickly for Sherlock's liking and, all too soon, it's time for him to get ready for prom. He faces his mirror and looks over himself. The suit he rented clings to him tightly and the first couple of buttons on his collar-shirt are undone. His hair is a mess of dark curls and he doesn't bother trying to tame them. Sherlock turns away from the mirror and walks into the hallway. He doesn't have to worry about Mycroft seeing him and taunting him: his older brother is busy doing British-government-things in a British-government location. His parents are out. Again.

Sherlock goes down the winding stairs and is soon outside. The air is crisp and cool and the sky threatens rain. Prom is being held inside the school's gymnasium and Sherlock begins the walk to Bryton that he takes every weekday. John agreed to meet with Sherlock outside of the gym and the two will face the (boring?) menace that is Senior Prom.

When he gets to the doors of Bryton, he sees Anderson and Donovan sitting together on the steps. Waiting for someone? Possibly. Wanting to catch a few minutes alone before going into the gym? Even more likely. Noticing Sherlock and desiring to belittle and mock him?

"Hey, freak."

Definitely.

Sherlock turns his cool eyes on Donovan's amber ones. He notices that her makeup is minimal and that her dress is plain and black. Her date dons the same appearance, though he replaced the dress with a suit.

"What're you doing here, freak?" Donovan snaps, as if his being there is inconveniencing her. "No one asked you to come with them as their date."

"What a deeply thought out observation," Sherlock says, "Considering that I arrived alone." She bristles. Before she can continue her pointless third-degree interrogation, Sherlock walks past them and goes inside. He goes to the gym and sees John standing outside waiting for him, alone.

The combination of John's deep blue suit and light blue tie makes his eyes seem even more luminous and bright. His blond hair is rather ruffled and becomes even more so when he runs a hand through it. When he sees Sherlock and smiles, it's all Sherlock can do not to grab him and kiss him.

"Hey," John says as Sherlock goes to him.

"Where's Mary?" Though Sherlock is grateful to see John alone, he figured that Mary would be clinging to his arm the entire night.

"Oh, she went backstage to make sure that they're setting up the announcement of Prom King and Queen correctly. She wants everything to be perfect, and focusing on prom is helping her to not think about Nancy."

Sherlock makes a half hum in response and allows John to lead him inside. The gym is decorated with blue and white balloons, streamers, lights, and banners. The prom committee set up a stage at the end of the gym with a deep red curtain draped across the apron of the stage. A DJ sits at the end of the stage, playing whatever music the school administrators pre-approved, much to the student's displeasure. A food table is set up near the entrance to the gym, containing two cakes, cupcakes, chips, and several boxes of pizza. Tables are set up around the room, but most of them are unoccupied, as people are busying themselves with "dancing" and stuffing themselves with enough cake and pizza to wake up with diabetes in the morning. Pre-approved music throbs through amplifiers and speakers and the air is heavy with teenage-energy and sweat.

Sherlock would love to turn around and walk right back out, but John looks thrilled. His eyes catch the glow of the lights dancing around the gym and for the first time since Nancy died, he looks truly happy and his face is not weighed down by trauma and worry. One look at John's face is all it takes for Sherlock to decide that he would get through the night. One way or the other.

Mary wishes that she had drunken more coffee before prom. Exhaustion and fatigue pull at her eyelids as she leans against the wall. Backstage is empty save for her, as they've done everything that they can do to make sure the announcement of Prom King and Queen will go smoothly. Mary yawns and pats down the ruffles on her ivory dress. Ever since the nightmare in math class, she's found it close to impossible to sleep. Whenever she manages to, that horrible man is always there, laughing and chasing her. Giving up on attempting to sleep, Mary has been awake for almost two days now. She promises herself that she will get a good night's sleep tonight.

Pulling back the velvet curtain slightly, Mary sees John sitting at a table. Someone is with him, and, even though their back is to her, she can tell from the mop of thick curls that it's Sherlock. She tenses and her mouth sets into a thin line. Mary closes the curtain again and falls back into the chair for Prom Queen. She rubs her manicured fingers along her temple, thinking of how she'll walk to John and cup his face in her hands and kiss him. She would make it clear to Sherlock that John was hers, and that no amount of his broody-genius was going to change that. Ever. Mary contemplates this, fanning herself as it seems to get hotter backstage.

She will also, over time, show John that he doesn't need Sherlock. Mary doesn't understand how someone as sweet and gentle as he could ever enjoy hanging out with someone as cold and hard as Sherlock. John seemed livid two nights ago after Mary told her what had happened when she encountered Sherlock in Nancy's room. Livid, not at Sherlock, but at her. He seemed deeply insulted by the fact that she considered that Sherlock could have killed Nancy. She had dropped the subject and he had calmed down by the end of school on Friday. The poor boy didn't even see how much Sherlock had manipulated him into defending him no matter what. It would be okay, though, she would make him see what a horrible person Sherlock Holmes really is.

The temperature continues to rise backstage and Mary begins breathing harder. Some idiot must have messed with the school's already-sensitive thermostat. Thinking of asking someone to go and check the thermostat, she tries to stands, only to find that she cannot. She blinks and looks down. Seeing nothing that would keep her bound to the chair, she tries to get up again, but cannot. She's stuck. The temperature continues to rise.

Sweat pours down her face and her breathing quickens. This must be some sort of prank, someone put glue or something on the chair to have a good laugh at the Prom King and Queen when they sat down. She looks around for someone to help her and sees the silhouette of a person standing near the end of the curtain.

"Hey!" she calls. The silhouette looks up. "Hey, can you help me? I'm stuck to the seat." Relief floods through her when the silhouette begins walking to her. Relief is replaced with terror, however, when the silhouette enters the light and she sees the razor claws and the fedora donning the man's head. The fedora casts shadows across the man's face, but she sees a cruel smirk scar his already-deformed face.

"Ohh, I don't think I'll be able to help you, princess," he says, his voice guttural and harsh. She begins to tremble harshly as he saunters to her, flicking his razor fingers at the curtain and slicing into it. "But maybe _you _can help _me_."

Mary attempts to ask what he wants, but all that comes out is a choked whimper. He laughs, loud and dark. He's in front of her now and he traces a blade down her pale cheek and under her chin. His other hand grabs the back of her neck and forces her head closer to him. Mary yelps as his harsh movement causes the hair stuck to the seat to rip. She whimpers. The two are nearly nose-to-nose now. Up close, she can see his has harsh blue eyes, cold and sinister, not warm and comforting like John's are. His skin is horribly and grotesquely burnt and the stench of burnt flesh invading her senses is almost enough to make her vomit.

"But before I get to work," he hisses, "I'm gonna have some fun of my own."

His mouth is suddenly crushing against hers. She screams as his tongue rips her mouth open and invades it. His tongue is thick and rough as it crushes itself against hers and ruthlessly explores her gums and teeth. It begins to go down her throat and she chokes as it elongates, forcing itself down her esophagus. Tears stream down her cheeks and sobs wrack her body as she chokes. Mary is vaguely aware of his knives tearing her dress open and slicing into her skin. The stench of burnt flesh, the heat, and the tongue down her throat all make her feel as if she is going to suffocate, but before she can, the man removes his throat from her mouth and grabs her jaw, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes are wide with terror and tears make her makeup run down her cheeks in rivulets.

"You're going to be a good girl, princess," he says. "You're going to send everyone a little message for me."

"W-wh-whu-what message?" she stammers in a whisper. This makes his smirk darken and his eyes gleam wickedly, hungrily.

"You're going to see little Nancy and give her a message from me." He leans in and his lips graze her ear. Mary is too terrified to register that he knows her cousin's name as he licks the inside of her ear. "You're going to tell her that she fucked up big time. That all she did was bring me to an all new playground. And you're going to tell her _thank you_."

Mary screams as he begins brutally slashing her exposed stomach. His cuts are precise, but slow and tortuous. Her wails of pain fall on deaf ears and are only interrupted by her sobs. Finally, he pulls his knives away. Bringing them up to his lips, he flicks his tongue across their surface and licks her blood and skin off of them. Her stomach lurches and she groans.

"Don't forget about my message, princess," he says darkly. "And don't you worry. I'll be sure to say hello to all your little friends out there for you."

Pain beyond imagination rips through Mary as he drives his knives into her throat. Blood fills her mouth and she feels as though she will drown in it as her eyes roll into the back of her head. She makes a horrible choking noise and, as she begins to slip toward darkness, one thought sticks in her mind.

Sherlock didn't kill Nancy after all.

**-/oOo\-**

"Where _is _she? It's almost time for them to announce who is Prom King and Queen."

Sherlock is relieved by Mary's absence so far tonight, but John is less than thrilled. For the past twenty minutes, he's been glancing around anxiously and repeatedly asking where Mary was, as if Sherlock knew and was withholding the information from him. Sherlock suspects his worry is more from the fact that he expected her to guide him through prom rather than wondering if she's alright.

"She's probably off powdering her nose or something," Sherlock says flatly. He ignores the look John throws him. "I don't know why you bother with her."

"What do you mean?" asks John.

"Because you deserve better than her, John," he snaps. John blinks, taken aback.

"Better? Better like what?"

"Better like-"

A shrill scream cuts him off. Sherlock looks toward the source and sees several people staring in horror at the stage. He moves his gaze toward the stage and stands. His first thought is to keep John from seeing, but it's too late.

The prom committee had opened the curtain to announce who the Prom King and Queen were, and instead revealed a sight of horror. Mary's dead body sits upon the chair for Prom Queen, her throat torn out and her head lolling at her side grotesquely. Blood pools around her and drips off the stage onto the shoes of the students. Half of her dress is ripped to shreds and her bare stomach is mutilated with cuts and gashes that say:

_ONE, TWO, FREDDY'S COMING FOR YOU_

Panic spreads like the plague through the crowd. People begin screaming and running for the exits, trampling those who tripped or stumbled. Those who fainted are suddenly torn to shreds by an unseen force, blood and bits of skin and gore flying through the air. Screams rip through the room as everyone who is able forces their way out of the gym.

John seems to collapse into Sherlock and he wraps his arms around him to keep him upright. Sherlock holds John close as his companion groans. His face is pressed into Sherlock's suit and he grips him tightly, trembling with grief and shock. Sherlock forces his gaze away from John to Mary. He memorizes the phrase carved into her flesh.

_Freddy. _

Sherlock decides to find out who this Freddy is. For John's sake. One way or the other.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

_WARNING: VIOLENCE/GORE, STRONG LANGUAGE, CHARACTER DEATH _

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Five**

School is cancelled for the rest of the week, on the grounds that _further investigations must take place and so on and blah, blah, blah_. Sherlock tuned out of the school's call after he heard _cancelled for a week_. A week without having to deal with irritating classmates is a week of heaven disguised as a week of hell. Now he'd that have to spend the week at home.

With his parents.

And Mycroft.

Sherlock falls back onto his bed, his feet almost dangling over the end of it, and he examines the cracks in his ceiling for the umpteenth time. His clock blinks _3:00 AM _on it. Sherlock laughs dryly. Over six hours ago did he witness a girl (albeit, one he despised) and several other students, meet their demise at the hand of some brutal, invisible killer, and his parents are still _out_. Mycroft had called them, of course, and their mother had said they were on their way. Six hours ago. Sherlock sighed shortly. It's not as if he needs their comfort or sympathy, whatever sympathy his father would be able to give anyway, but it'd be nice to know that they were at least concerned enough to come home.

The heavy thuds that sound outside of his door followed by the click of a door closing tells Sherlock that Mycroft has finally given up on waiting for their parents and retired to bed. Sherlock glances at his phone in his right hand. He's been expecting a call or a text from John, but his companion has been silent. The last he saw of the distraught teen was when he was sitting in the back of an ambulance, orange blanket clutched tightly around him and his parents holding him tightly before Mycroft had dragged Sherlock away. No doubt he knew that Sherlock wanted to see the body up-close, and, while he did, Sherlock was more concerned about the well-being of his friend.

_Freddy._

Sherlock had wracked every corner of his mind to find some meaning to the name, but found none. Nowhere in his mind palace had he dedicated a room to anyone named Freddy, Fred, or Frederick, or to someone as violent and so talented at staying out of sight as him. Well, at least, not to anyone other than Jim Moriarty.

He had caught a glimpse of the boy throughout the chaos earlier that night. Jim wasn't looking at him; he was holding Molly and feigning comfort while his black eyes glittered at the delectable sight of Mary's body. When his eyes did meet Sherlock's, a broad smile spread across his face and he raised his hand, granting Sherlock a pleasant wave. Jim's eyes then fell upon John and his grin broadened as he saw how tightly he clung onto Sherlock. He gave Sherlock a wink. Sherlock forced himself to look away and led John out of the gymnasium, feeling Jim's gaze burning into the back of his skull, even after they had made it outside of the school. He can still feel his gaze now.

The exhaustion from that night's events and worry about John catches up to Sherlock and his eyelids droop. He pulls a thin blanket over him and burrows into his pillow, some feathers puffing out of the loose seams. Sherlock blows one off of his nose and closes his eyes. Resolving that he would check on John at the first sign of daylight, Sherlock slowly drifts into a restless sleep with the image of Mary's body flashing behind his eyelids.

**-/oOo\-**

It's not often that Anderson basks in the limelight of academic achievement, as that freak Holmes always beats him to it, but now, he's savoring the moment. The Dean of Students, Lestrade, has just given him an award for being the top student in the history of Bryton Secondary School. Anderson stands on the school's theatre stage, Lestrade patting his shoulder and beaming and the students in the seats cheering. Sally is cheering especially loud and she looks delectable in the tight shirt she's wearing, he notices. Anderson's mood brightens even more when he sees Holmes brooding in a corner, wearing a dunce's hat that has "FREAK" printed across it in bold.

Smirking triumphantly, Anderson examines the gold certificate in his hands. It gleams brightly in the theatre's spotlights and reflects the words printed on it. As he reads them though, his mood dims considerably and is replaced with confusion. The certificate reads:

BRYTON SECONDARY SCHOOL

WOULD LIKE TO CONGRADULATE

S. ANDERSON

FOR BEING A GIANT FUCK-WAD

AND THE BIGGEST DUMBASS FUCK THAT

BRYTON HAS EVER HAD THE DISPLEASURE OF KNOWING

GO FUCK YOURSELF

SIGNED, F. KRUEGER

Anderson realizes that everyone has stopped clapping. He looks up from his certificate to see everyone staring at him. They are expressionless, but their eyes are black and filled with malice. Some of them are now wearing dirty fedoras, and some of them are wearing red and green stripped sweaters, and some of them look terribly burnt. Swallowing and deciding that now may be the moment to take his leave, Anderson backs up and is stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. Cold seeps into his stomach and he dares to look at the hand clutching his shoulder. His mouth goes dry as he sees that it is adorned with a glove with knives for fingers.

"Where do you think you're going?" the owner of the hand snarls mockingly. "The celebration's just getting started!"

Anderson looks up and feels a scream rise in his throat as he sees the horribly disfigured man behind him. His eyes flash darkly and a smirk cuts into his face, making it look even more devilish.

"Aw, what's wrong, Andy?" he pouts. "Do you not like your reward?"

"N-no," he sputters without thinking. The man's face takes on the expression of that of a father preparing to reprimand his rude and disobedient son.

"Well isn't that a fuckin' shame?"

Before Anderson can sputter another stupid response, the man's hand is on his throat. He chokes as the man's grip tightens and his fingernails dig into his skin.

"I don't appreciate piggies who don't appreciate all the things I do for them, Andy." The man's tone is no longer mocking. It's cold and harsh.

"W-w-who are you?" Anderson chokes. This earns him another smirk and the fingers on his neck to tighten.

"Don't you remember the little message I left for all you kiddos on little Mary's body? I thought it was quite the show. I'm quite proud of myself."

"You killed her? You're Freddy?"

"Freddy Krueger, at your service: professional pedophile and licensed murderer. But, enough about me. Let's focus on you, Andy."

Anderson cries out as Freddy slams him into the ground and groans as his head cracks against the surface. Spots dance in front of his eyes, but he can see Freddy's hungry expression all too clearly.

"Let's give them a good show, what do you say?" Freddy snarls coldly. "But first, I need to punish you for being a bad boy."

The agony that shoots through Anderson's hand is enough to blind him a moment as Freddy slices off four of his fingers. Blood spurts from them, almost cartoonishly, he thinks madly through the haze of pain. It's not until he sees his bloody stump of a left hand that he screams: loud and shrill. This causes Freddy to laugh darkly.

"Hell, that was a lot of fun! Let's not stop there!"

Screams continue to echo off of the walls and falls on the student's deaf ears as Freddy slices off all of Anderson's fingers and toes. When his final toe is sliced off, Freddy pouts. Anderson is vaguely grateful that there's nothing left for him to cut off as he blinks dazedly through the paralyzing pain.

"Weeeeell, there _is _one more thing I can cut off." When Freddy glances not-so-subtlety at Anderson's crotch, he feels as though he might faint.

"Wait! Don't-!"

But it's too late. Screams louder and shriller than that of before rip through Anderson's throat as Freddy finishes slicing. The pain from before is almost pale in comparison to the pain tearing through his body now. Tears stream down Anderson's face as Freddy grips his chin in his bloody hand tightly. Anderson trembles in horror as he stares into Freddy's face. It was years ago since he had sex with Sally outside of the school before prom. It was decades.

"Good show, Andy," Freddy says, a smirk spreading across his face. "But, I'm afraid we're going to have to cut you."

Pain tears through Anderson's chest as Freddy plunges his knives inside. He hears a rush of blood and can taste it filling his mouth before he can hear and taste nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

**WARNING: **_SEXUAL REFERENCES/ VIOLENCE AND GORE _

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Six**

Nearly half of the student body makes an appearance for Mary's funeral a couple days later. It's the first time since her death that Sherlock has seen John. They sit together now, watching a vague-acquaintance of Mary make a teary speech about how kind she was and how pretty and how young she died and the same obligational, grieving, empty words that gives Sherlock a headache.  
He glances at John and sees his friend staring blankly ahead. No tears stain his face; either he is all cried out, or is determined not to break down in front of the crowd. Everyone has treated him as if he is a bomb that will go off at any moment, speaking gently, touching his shoulder or his arm gently, and giving him gentle hugs. Everything is gentle toward John today, and it infuriates Sherlock to no end. Don't they see how strong he is? How he doesn't _need _nor _want _them to be gentle to him, as if he is a piece of cracked glass. He's not, Sherlock knows, he's strong and, though grieving now, will be fine.

Sherlock's hand finds John's and he squeezes it. John looks at him and squeezes his hand, gratitude replacing the sadness in his eyes for just a moment. He holds onto the pale boy's hand as he looks forward again. Squeezing his hand faintly, Sherlock, bored with the new person giving another teary eulogy, allows his eyes to pass over everyone's faces. Some he recognizes, others he doesn't. Frowning, Sherlock notices that Donovan has yet to make an appearance. He glanced her screaming and being held by Anderson on his way out of the gym with John on Saturday night, and assumes that she's too distraught to attend her best friend's funeral.

His eyes begin grazing over the crowd again and as he vaguely ponders how a cemetery would be a clever location to hide a body, his pale eyes suddenly lock onto a pair of black ones. Upon recognizing him, the darkness within them gleams and a smile spreads on Jim Moriarty's face. His black eyes flick to John and his smile widens. Feigning a pout, Jim pantomimes a tear falling down his cheek and his heart snapping in two with his hands. Sherlock remains expressionless, his hand tightening on John's. It's as if Jim is aware of this, as his eyebrow raises amusedly before waving again and turning away, disappearing into a crowd of black coats and teary faces.

Sherlock half-wishes that Jim had been the one to be maimed and gutted. It's a pleasant thought.

Finally, after the final eulogy is sobbed out, everyone begins to break away and head for the exit of the cemetery. Sherlock stands and, grudgingly so, leaves John's side to allow him some privacy at Mary's grave. Promising to meet him at the entrance, Sherlock begins walking down the leaf strewn path leading to the iron gates. The dead leaves crunch loudly under his feet and he gazes down at them blankly. Wondering why there are always dead leaves in cemeteries, he picks at a loose seam in his pocket as they sky darkens and threatens rain. Sherlock glances back at John and sees him kneeling next to Mary's tombstone, his forehead pressed against it, but showing no signs of sobbing or crying.

He is saved the temptation of going to his friend's side when a familiar face makes its way to him. Sherlock notices that the Dean of Students, Lestrade, looks paler than usual and that his eyes are rather puffy, though not as much as the others. He looks older now, as if he aged ten years in the past two days.

"Hello, Sherlock." He also sounds like he has a cold.

"Hello," he replies.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Lestrade says. "You and Mary never struck me as the closest of friends." Surely he is recalling the times Sherlock sat in his office for putting eyeballs in Mary's locker or skulls on her desks.

"I'm here for John."

Lestrade nods lightly and looks over at Mary's grave and John's crouched figure. He runs a hand through his silver hair and sighs, seeming to age five more years in the process. Sherlock wonders if there is anything he should say, but decides against it, as it would probably not be considered by society as _kind _or _sympathetic_.

"I'm afraid this is just the beginning, however," Lestrade says. "Horrible. Having to bury more teenagers." Sherlock looks at him, interest piqued.

"What's happened now?"

"Suppose you should know. Another one was killed the night Mary died. That boy, Anderson. Murdered in his bed."

Sherlock doesn't bother to feign being upset or startled by the news. Lestrade is well aware the two despised each other. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but the look Lestrade gives him cuts him off._ None of your business, you hated the kid anyway. _Had anyone else given Sherlock that look, he would have scoffed and pressed harder for answers, but, for Lestrade, he falls silent. For now. Giving Sherlock information would get him into trouble, something he does not want for Lestrade.

John approaches them and Lestrade turns to him to give him more words of comfort and sympathy, though, thankfully, he doesn't speak to John as if he is glass nor does he speckle the conversations with _I'm sorry_'s or _I'm here for you_'s, when he really isn't. Sherlock tunes them out as he looks toward Mary's grave.

_Freddy._

Sherlock is glad that Lestrade and John are looking the other way and cannot see his faint smile.

Serial killers are always fun.

**-/oOo\-**

Sherlock had gotten so comfortable spending hours hauled up in his room researching serial killers in Springwood, Ohio that he was quite put off upon being forced to return to school at the end of the week. In the habit of conversing with his skull that rests on his desk, Sherlock found himself unconsciously talking to the absent skull as he sat in class, allowing his mind to poke and prod at the research he conducted on Springwood.

After deciding that the killer was linked with Thompson, Sherlock focused his attention on the small rinky-dink town. Nothing was particularly unusual about it, aside from its religious fervor with having a carnival each year. It had its folk tales and empty legends that each small town has, none of which grabbed Sherlock's attention. He had been prepared to give up, when he found a large gap of Springwood history missing. Data scattered over thirty years was erased or deleted or guarded by security that Sherlock could not hack on his phone or laptop, as Mycroft suspended that ability after Sherlock hacked into the school network in an attempt to place John in all of his classes and suspend Mary from school. He refused to go to Mycroft for any assistance and had resolved to go to Mr. Thompson for information. It was then that he discovered that Nancy's father had killed himself by sending a bullet through his skull. An annoying setback, but not one Sherlock could not work around.

He toys with the idea of using Mycroft's laptop while his brother is busy doing official-Mycroft-Holmes-tasks as he walks into science class, rubbing his hand absentmindedly over the faint scars on his inner forearm. Sherlock sits in his seat in the back and, per usual, ignores the stares and smirks and whispers that follow him to his seat. He only glances up when Jim Jim enters the classroom and sits in his seat in the front. Everyone acts as though he doesn't exist, and he seems content with returning the favor. Jim doesn't look back at Sherlock.

A black-haired, dumpy woman enters the room shortly after the late bell rings, looking out of place and out of breath. No doubt having just learned that she was due to teach the class after Mary's father, who normally taught the class, unceremoniously quit the day before. Sherlock is not particularly distraught. He had been a bumbling idiot of a teacher, one who praised those who agreed with him on the best football teams and ignored the rest. The new teacher writes Ms. Beadell on the board.

"Well," she pants (in an American accent, Sherlock notes), "obviously, I'm your new teacher since Mr. Morstan took a permanent leave of absence."

Glances are exchanged throughout the room. Jim looks bored. Sherlock agrees with him.

"I thought we'd play a little icebreaker game that'll help me learn your names," Beadell says a bit too perkily. Sherlock picks up the nervous quiver in her voice and sighs irritably, hoping she gets over her first-day-of-teaching nerves soon. "We'll go through the room and you'll say your name and something you like to do that starts with the first letter of your first name. Here, I'll start." She stands up taller and still is unable to match the height of most of the teenagers slouching in their seats. "I'm Rhodna Beadell and I like rollerblading. See?" She flashes a toothy smile. "Now, we'll go in alphabetical order, starting with Adrianna Albaran."

Sherlock holds his head in his hands and grinds his teeth together. The desire to kill himself gets particularly stronger when some people forget that the whole point of the "icebreaker" (_"Wait, what I like has to start with the first letter of my name?")_. The back of Jim's head remains expressionless. Sherlock is calculating how quickly he can leave the room when his name is called. He looks up at Beadell and finds the classes eyes (even Jim's) on him. Everyone wants to hear what the Freak has to say.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he all but growls. Beadell waits for more and is about to ask him to go on when he shoots her a glare so cold and foul that she staggers on her words and retreats. Bumbling, she looks back to her roster and calls on the next teenager. Sherlock glowers at the room until everyone has turned from him. Jim smiles at him, as if proud, before turning away. Sherlock burns holes into the back of his head.

They are unable to even make it to the K's due to Alice Johnson working herself into tears of frustration after being unable to come up with a hobby or activity she enjoyed that began with an A. The bell rings before Beadell is able to help her decide between acing tests or acting. Sherlock takes his time in gathering up to avoid the mad dash to the door and is one of the last of them to leave. He's at the doorway when a hand closes around his elbow. The grip is cold and tight. Sherlock feels the warmth of Jim's body press against his back as Jim brings his lips to his ear.

"I'm Jim Moriarty, and I like to jack off to you, Sherlock." His breath is cold on Sherlock's neck and Jim's hand finds its way onto his shoulder. The grip on his elbow tightens to the point where it feels as though his bones are grinding against each other. "To the thought of you stumbling and guessing over the edges of this little game until it's too late for you to do anything." His tongue flicks against Sherlock's ear lobe.

Sherlock jerks and wrenches himself free, feeling Jim's smile on his back as he walks down the hallway. He can still feel his breath on his neck and his hand on his shoulder and elbow. Sherlock rolls up his sleeve to find finger-shaped bruises already forming. He wipes his ear viciously with his sleeve, hard enough to make it begin to ring.

Jim's words pique some level of Sherlock's interest, no matter how much he hates himself for it. The idea of what the seventeen-year-old could know about the serial killer named Freddy who is apparently invisible and attacks while people or tired or asleep threatens to plague Sherlock's mind, so he forces the idea aside. For now. He will focus on his own research and, if it turns up without success, then he will turn his focus to Jim and his efforts.

At the same moment Sherlock is scrubbing his ear within an inch of its life, Sally Donovan falls asleep in her psychology class. She had been unable to sleep soundly since Anderson's murder and the instructor's steady droning voice was enough to gently lead her into sleep's questionable embrace. Now, her hand cradles her chin as she sleeps, her dark curls curtaining her face. The instructor notices, but decides the poor girl has been through enough and allows her to sleep for the first time since her boyfriend's brutal murder. Other students notice Donovan sleep soundly as well, but leave her be. Grief and suffering tend to act like the plague. The moment when you wish everyone was around to comfort you or just act normally is the same moment they decide to treat you as if you are holding a gun to their head and will shoot them, should they say or do the wrong thing. The loneliness of grief is already crushing, but being treated like an outcast is almost unbearable for Sally.

The only person who has been as normal as possible with Sally is the girl sitting behind her. Molly pushes her auburn ponytail behind her shoulder as she copies notes down in her notebook. Between the metronome of scratching pencils on paper and the droning of the instructor's voice, it's no wonder Sally fell asleep, it's enough to tug at Molly's eyelids. She rubs her eyes and yawns. As the instructor's voice continues to drone, her mind begins to sift listlessly through other thoughts.

Her mind takes her back to prom, a subject of nightmares as of late. The image of Mary's torn up and mangled body is burned into her eyelids, the metallic scent of blood hasn't stopped assaulting her senses, the pounding of feet and screams hasn't stopped echoing in her ears. In fact, Molly frowns, the screams she's imagining now sound awfully realistic.

She opens her eyes and feels her stomach twist into knots as she realizes that she is not imagining screaming. Sally seems to be having a sort of fit, crying out in fear and thrashing in her seat. Those sitting next to her have recoiled and everyone is staring at her, too transfixed to do anything but stare.

Blood suddenly spurts from Sally and a part of her ear falls off. Her screams become shrill and riddled with pain. Others cry in surprise and horror, but still, no one turns to help the bleeding girl. Molly watches in horror, unable to look away and unable to move, as more and more wounds just _appear _on Sally's body. Four slashes on her arm, her whole ear being cut off, a finger sliced off her right hand, blood exploding from her shoulder as if she is stabbed. Sally keeps screaming. Molly starts to believe that the screams will never stop. _Off with her head, that'll stop the screaming. Then we can use it to play croquet instead of using the poor little hedgehogs. Hey, maybe we can use her arm for a mallet instead of a flamingo_, Molly thinks crazily. She presses her hand to stop a laugh from coming out of her mouth, but what comes out instead is a sob.

Sally's neck suddenly turns 180 degrees with a gut-wrenching _snap! _Her brown eyes are filled with tears and frozen with horror, her mouth open in a silent scream, blood dripping down her face and her grotesque neck. Her eyes burn into Molly's. She groans as Sally slowly drops to the ground with a sickening crunch. Molly wonders why the screaming hasn't stopped yet. _She's dead_, Molly thinks desperately, _she's dead, we didn't even have to cut off her head, why hasn't the screaming just STOPPED?!_

It's then that she realizes that she is the one screaming.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Scars that Remain

**Author: **Ana S.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based off concepts and characters that belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, BBC, Wes Craven, and New Line Cinema. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Rating: **M

**WARNING: **MENTIONS OF DRUG USE, CHILD ABUSE/VIOLENCE

"You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."

― Megan Chance, _the Spiritualist_

**Chapter Seven**

Sally's death is just what Sherlock needs. It's when things begin to click and when his Mind Palace becomes much more organized and clean and clear. The room he's created for this serial killer is still rather dirty and haphazard, but there is one corner of the room clear. That corner holds the killer's patterns. He kills while people are asleep. But the question of _how _he manages to so horribly mutilate people and slaughter them in front of an entire class without any of them seeing anyone so much as _touch _Sally still is driving Sherlock up the wall. He longs to discuss the matter with John, but he doubts that he would want to discuss Mary's murderer so quickly. Another benefit of these serial killings is that it's diverting Sherlock's emotions toward John and forcing him to focus on other matters. He's relieved to be in control of his emotions for the moment. Emotions are exhausting.

A yawn escapes his mouth and he stretches his long limbs. Sherlock ruffles his dark curls and glances at the clock. Only one o'clock in the morning. He glances out the door and sees Mycroft's bedroom light still on. His slender fingers glide over the scars on his forearm as he considers, not for the first time in a few days, to throw aside his ego and pride and ask Mycroft if he has any clue as to who Freddy is. If not, perhaps he could at least give Sherlock access to the missing Springwood records. Mycroft's influence doesn't stop at England's borders and Sherlock knows he has connections in America. It's just, the thought of asking Mycroft for help is almost enough to make Sherlock run to Jim and ask him instead. Almost.

Sherlock sighs irritably as he stands. His blue pajama bottoms pool around his feet and hang off his thin figure as he walks to Mycroft's door. Raising his fist, Sherlock raps twice on the door.

"Enter," Mycroft says. Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks inside.

Mycroft's room is as it normally is: clean and organized and almost void of sentimental possessions. No family photo hangs over his black desk, no childhood stuffed animal sits on a shelf, no posters or piece of art decorate his brother's olive green walls. The only thing of sentimental value in the room is a small photo next to Mycroft's bed. It is of Sherlock and Mycroft together when the family visited Germany when Sherlock was seven. In the photo, Mycroft is carrying Sherlock in a piggyback, Sherlock's small arms laced around his brother's neck and a large smile on his and Mycroft's face. The elder brother's eyes are filled with adoration for his younger brother. Sherlock wonders if Mycroft ever stopped looking at him like that or if he refused to acknowledge if he ever did. He wonders when that started and when photos like the one in Germany stopped.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, dear brother?"

Sherlock turns his eyes upon his brother. Mycroft's raised eyebrow and parental tone is enough to make any inklings of nostalgia vanish. Irritation blossoms.

"I have to ask you about something." The words are forced out of Sherlock's mouth and they taste foul. The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitches and he seems amused. Sherlock imagines taking the book he's reading (Machiavelli's, _The Prince_) and smacking him with it.

"Do you now? And what do you need to ask of me, little brother?"

"It's about the murders."

"No, you cannot go to the morgue and examine the bodies. It's enough that you broke into Morstan's home to look at Nancy's room."

Sherlock doesn't bother asking how Mycroft knows of that. "I wanted to ask about what was carved into Mary's stomach and who Freddy is."

"I would assume that this Freddy would be the killer. I would have hoped you could come to that deduction yourself."

Bristling, Sherlock snaps, "You know what I mean, Mycroft."

"Ought you to be a little more polite if you want my help, Sherlock?" Mycroft says evenly. "A don't raise your voice. You might wake Father."

That's enough to make all of Sherlock's irritation immediately vanish.

"Do you know who Freddy could be or not?" he asks, considerably more quiet this time. Mycroft leans back in his armchair.

"No, I cannot say that I do. But I'd rather you stay out of these affairs, Sherlock." Mycroft's concerned undertone is clear, but Sherlock chooses to ignore it.

"I can handle myself. No thanks to you, Mycroft," Sherlock says coldly. He notices Mycroft's jaw set and his blue-grey eyes reflecting pain for the briefest of moments. Though he's only 24, he seems to have aged ten years in that small moment.

"Yes, I know." When Mycroft speaks, he sounds collected and calm, per usual. "I still worry about you, Sherlock."

"Don't waste your energy," Sherlock snaps, "I know you have better things you can spend it on." He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, his blue robe bellowing behind him. Sherlock goes back into his room and closes the door.

He falls onto his bed and buries his face into the soft abyss that is his pillow. His dark curls lie splayed out on the white pillow case and his toes dangle over the side of the bed. Sherlock turns onto his back and stares at the cracks in his ceiling, his fingers unconsciously running over the scars on his forearm for the second time that night. He closes his eyes and grips his arm tightly. God, how he could use some relief. But Mycroft had confiscated all of his cocaine and cut off all of his access to it. Sherlock had been too busy being relieved that Mycroft was not going to tell their parents of his drug use to consider that he should have kept a small amount for some relief when he really needed it. Nights when their father arrived home red-faced and drunk was when he needed it. Nights when Father shouted and slapped Sherlock for being disrespectful or disobeying his authority was when he needed it. Nights when Mycroft retreated into his corner in the library rather than help Sherlock or when Mycroft ran off to college for two years was when he needed it. Nights like tonight where painful memories refuse to be locked away are when he needs it.

Sherlock shakes his head roughly and ruffles his hair agitatedly, as if this will confuse his thoughts long enough to make them go away. He forces his mind to turn away from the dark, broad figure that is Father and the forever-running-away image that is Mycroft and Mother and to turn back to Nancy and Mary and Anderson and Donovan. And Freddy. Especially Freddy.

Mind sifting over thoughts and theories, Sherlock pulls his covers over him and settles back into his bed. He allows his eyes to close and he enters the room dedicated to Freddy in his Mind Palace. It isn't long though before Sherlock feels himself slowly begin to drift toward sleep. The oak grandfather in the living room is striking 2 o'clock downstairs when the teenage boy falls completely into Sleep's arms, falling asleep amongst vague and scattered information on Freddy in his Mind Palace.

**-/oOo\-**

_CRASH!_

Sherlock jerks awake at the sound of shattering glass. He looks toward the sound and through his half-asleep daze he sees a rock resting on his carpet next to the shattered glass of his now broken window. Pushing his bangs out of his face, Sherlock gets out of bed and, careful not to cut his bare feet on the glass, picks up the rock. He blinks and rubs his eyes before studying it. The stone is smooth and heavy in his hand, yellow spray-paint scarring the side of it in a large smiley-face. Sherlock furrows his eyebrows and is about to look out the window when another sound jars him, this one twisting his stomach into knots.

"_Sherlock!_"

Father's voice is enough to make Sherlock drop the rock and turn to his door. His heart begins hammering in his chest and his throat becomes dry and his chest tightens. The door slams open and Sherlock's father stands in the doorway. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is red, dried alcohol staining his undone tie and button-up shirt. Sherlock inherited his bright eyes from his father, but, as he looks into the drunken rage that fills them now, he suddenly wishes that he didn't. He glances behind the beast that is his father to Mycroft's door. The light is on, but the door is firmly shut. Sherlock feels something inside of him wither. He later realizes that it was hope.

"What the fuck is this?" his father snaps. "Who the fuck is throwing rocks through your window?"

In his younger years, Sherlock would have replied that it wasn't his fault that people were throwing rocks into his room, but now, he knows better. His father doesn't want an answer, and saying anything runs the risk of making him even angrier. Even so, the silence that follows is long enough that Sherlock is about to open his mouth to answer when his father suddenly grabs a fistful of his dark curls and yanks him harshly toward him. No yelp escapes Sherlock's mouth and the stench of alcohol and (burned flesh?) is enough to make him gag. Sweat slowly trickles down his temple, but whether from nerves or from the temperature in the room, he isn't sure. His father yanks his hair back and forces Sherlock to look at him. He vaguely notices that Father's eyes seem to be a brighter blue than before.

"What the hell is it with kids today, huh? No goddamn respect for their fucking elders, huh, Sherly?"

Sherlock frowns. His father has never called him Sherly. Or has he? The stifling heat and the hand jerking painfully on his hair are making it harder for him to think clearly.

"I think it's time I teach you some fucking respect," his father growls. Except, it can't be his father. His voice is far too guttural and harsh to be the voice of his father. Before Sherlock can focus on it for too long, his not-father throws him into the hallway. Sherlock grunts when he lands on rusted metal rather than the hideous carpet pattern of the hallway. He looks up and sees that he is no longer in his home at all. His surroundings have mutated into what can only be a boiler room, steam fogging his vision and clouding his judgment. A high pitched whistling begins as a boiler emits steam into his face. Sherlock jerks back and grabs onto the railing of the catwalk he sits on, pulling himself to his feet. Turning around, Sherlock sees that his not-father is no longer behind him, yet he still feels watched.

A screeching, ear-piercing sound of metal scraping against metal reverberates around him and bounces around his skull. His hand flies to his temple as his head throbs, searching for the source of the sound. It's impossible to identify the direction it's coming from, echoing from everything and nothing, existing in reality and in his head. Just as he is wondering if he'll be hearing the wretched screech for the rest of his life, it stops. Sherlock looks through the haze of heat and the throbbing of his head and sees a dark figure at the end of the catwalk. He narrows his pale eyes as the figure begins advancing toward him, steps calm and languid. No urge to run grips him. Sherlock simply stands there and watches.

The laugh that emits from the figure is similar to the metal-on-metal screech. It echoes everywhere and bounces off everything. The laugh is one that would send chills down the spine of any normal person, one that would send anyone's mind into a tailspin of panic because they oh-so-certainly do not want to meet the owner of _that_ laugh. Sherlock neither has chills erupt down his spine or his mind dart into panic-mode. Rather, he is intrigued.

"Oo, tough guy, huh?" the figure says in that guttural, cruel voice, tone is dripping with sarcasm. "Let's take a look into that head of yours, eh, Sherly?"

Sherlock suddenly feels as though someone is poking his brain. He blinks and shakes his head. It feels odd and uncomfortable, as if someone else is wandering around inside his Mind Palace and messing with the rooms and the data inside. Then, just as soon as it started, it stops. Sherlock sees a broad smirk dawn on the figure's face, a short laugh emitting from his throat.

"Well, I'll be," he says, advancing closer. Sherlock can see that he is wearing a dark fedora and his skin is grotesquely burned and marred. His bright blue eyes burn into Sherlock's, but he holds his gaze. "That's some fuckin' brain you got there, Sherly. I'm impressed."

Sherlock stares at him.

Something shines in Sherlock's eye and he blinks, flicking his gaze to the gleam. His eyes fall upon four razor-sharp knives donned on the man's right hand, one on each finger. Something inside his Mind Palace clicks.

"Freddy."

"Aw, you already know who I am. I'm flattered, Sherly, really I am," Freddy says, tilting his head as his smirk broadens. "Did you see my work with that prom queen bitch? I bet you liked it."

"It was a bit messy for my taste," Sherlock says dryly. This causes Freddy's face to darken. He's within grabbing distance of Sherlock now. "Though I am curious as to how you managed to kill them without anyone seeing you. And where are we?"

"Ah, but that would be giving away my greatest trick," Freddy says, flicking a razor across Sherlock's nose before wagging it in front of his face. "And I think I'll explain later. Or not at all. I dunno, we'll see how I feel, Sherly. As for where we are, that should be obvious. We're in here." At this, Freddy taps Sherlock's forehead. "In your dream."

Sherlock sighs, disappointed. It's all been a dream. Then this man in front of him isn't really whoever Freddy is. He's simply a mental projection that his mind concocted, probably spawning from a mix of previous serial killers he's seen before crafting the face of the man before him. A shame. He was starting to become excited.

Freddy scowls. "Don't think I'm real, hm?" Sherlock blinks and looks at him just as Freddy's hand clasps around his neck. He lifts the thin teenager with obvious ease and slams his back into the railing of the catwalk. The rails dig painfully into Sherlock's spine and he squirms only for Freddy to tighten his grip on his neck, pressing his thumb down on his windpipe. The boy chokes and Freddy brings his face close to his. "Get this in that brilliant head of yours, Sherly: I'm as real as it fuckin' gets. And I'm not going away anytime soon, so you better get used to me. I'm your worst nightmare. I'm the Springwood Slasher. I'm Freddy fuckin' Krueger." With each statement his hand on Sherlock's neck gets tighter and tighter. Spots begin to dance in front of Sherlock's eyes and he notices Freddy raising his knives.

"You want to know how I killed those fuckers?" he growls darkly. "Well, here's a demonstration."

Pain lances up Sherlock's arm and blinds him a moment as four knives are driven into his shoulder. He would scream if he had any air to do so and a mangled choke of pain comes from his mouth instead. Wrenching his eyes shut, Sherlock searches for a solution. The pain should not be _this bad _if it's just a dream. It shouldn't be _this hard _to breathe if it was just a dream. He lets out another mangled and breathless yelp as Freddy yanks his knives out of his shoulder.

"This isn't just a fucking dream, you stupid fuck," Freddy snarls, a dark smirk twisting his mouth. "But, I guess you'll understand more in just a moment. This was fun, Sherly. I think I'll save you for later. Until then, sweet dreams."

Sherlock gasps for air as the hand is suddenly released from his throat. He jerks up and blinks when he sees that he is no longer in the boiler room, he is lying in his bed and Freddy is nowhere to be seen. Sherlock coughs and pants for air, raising his hand to his throat and gasping as pain seers through his arm and torso. He looks at his shoulder to see his pale flesh mangled and torn up and bleeding profusely. The pain is making his arm numb and is blinding whenever he moves his arm. Sherlock grabs the now-ruined sheets and presses it to the wound in hopes of stemming the flow of blood and has to bite his tongue hard enough to make it bleed to keep from crying out. Stumbling to his bathroom, Sherlock cleans off the wound as best he can and feels like cursing out when he realizes that it's going to need treatment from a hospital.

He presses his hand to the wound and considers going to Mycroft but quickly throws that idea away. He will ask too many questions, questions that Sherlock is purposefully ignoring at the moment for worry that addressing them will put him even more on edge than he already is. His parents are out of the question. He would go to John, but he would also ask too many worrying and prying questions. Sherlock turns to his cell phone resting on his desk and picks it up, calling his only other option. It takes several rings before the person on the other end picks up the phone.

"Molly?"

**-/oOo\-**

As he hoped, Molly asks little to no questions. They both sit in a hospital room now, Sherlock's shoulder treated, as they wait for the doctor to return with some final paperwork to fill out. Sherlock is glad that he stole Mycroft's ID several weeks ago; it's making the entire ordeal much easier. He looks at Molly to see her running her hand through her hair for the umpteenth time. Dark bags hang under her eyes and she looks pale and worn out. Sherlock realizes that he probably woke her up. He often forgets that he is one of the only people he knows who occasionally doesn't sleep for days on end.

"I apologize if I woke you," Sherlock says. Molly jumps lightly and looks at him. She seems surprised at his apology.

"Oh, it's alright," she says, pushing her hair out of her face. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."

"Why not?"

Molly waves her hand dismissively. "Just some nightmares. No big deal."

Sherlock's hand finds its way onto the bandages on his shoulder and they graze them lightly. "Yes. No big deal," he mutters. Molly swats his hand away from his shoulder.

"Don't pick at it. You'll make it worse."

Sherlock growls irritably but does as she says. He stands, saying, "I'm going to get some coffee."

"But the doctor said to stay here," Molly interjects. Sherlock shoots her a look and she sighs. "Alright, I'll wait here." She leans back in her seat and rubs her hand over her eyes as Sherlock leaves the room, the door slamming with a resolute _slam! _

God, she's tired. She hasn't slept since what happened with Sally, the dead girl's eyes burning into her eyelids. Molly covers her mouth as a yawn escapes her mouth and she rests her head against the back of the seat. Her eyelids slowly drift closed and her mind begins the casual stroll toward sleep. The room is comfortably warm and the drone of hospital machines and smells of medicine is soothing to her. By the time Sherlock returns with a cup of god-awful hospital coffee, Molly is fast asleep.

He sits on the edge of the hospital bed, thumb running across the lid of the coffee cup. His shoulder throbs lightly, but the pain isn't nearly as bad as it was before the doctor gave him some medication for it. Sherlock stares at the Styrofoam lid as his mind forces him to consider the night's unexplainable events.

Ever since he woke up, Sherlock has been trying with alarming rigor to come up with a logical, valid reason behind exactly what _happened_. But nowhere in his Mind Palace could he find any reasons for someone getting hurt in a dream and then having said wounds follow them back into reality. It just didn't. Happen. And yet, here he is with his shoulder nearly torn to pieces thanks to some man in his dreams.

Sherlock grips the cup tighter to keep his hands from trembling. The idea is logical, but also laughs and spits in the face of logic. The patterns fit; they've all been killed while they were asleep. The weapon fits; four identical razors are what Sherlock concluded to be the murder weapon after seeing Mary and Sally's wounds. The "killer" fits; after examining the skin caught on the torn fingernail Sherlock found in Nancy's bed, he determined that the skin had long been dead and burned. Sherlock presses his fingers to his temple, balancing the cup between his knees, and closes his eyes. The question of _HOW _Freddy is managing to kill people in their dreams and then have their death bleed into reality is putting Sherlock further on edge. For once, his logical and sensible mind is failing him.

Sherlock is so lost in tearing apart his Mind Palace for information, it isn't until Molly screams that he finally snaps back to reality. He looks at her and sees that four slashes have appeared on her stomach, blood blooming on her shirt and skin. He jumps to his feet, not registering the coffee cup falling to the ground and burning his legs as it splashes on his skin. Sherlock is out of the room in three large steps and runs to the nurses' cart he saw on his way in. No nurse or doctor in sight, and not caring if there would be, Sherlock begins pillaging the cart. His hand clasps around what he is looking for and he runs back into the hospital room. Molly is crying and all the color is drained from her face and finger-shaped bruises are forming on her neck. Sherlock takes the syringe filled with adrenaline and grabs Molly's arm. He drives the syringe into her forearm and the clear liquid flows into her veins.

With a loud gasp and a jerk, Molly snaps her eyes open. The syringe falls to the floor but they both ignore it. Sherlock stares at her, unmoving. Molly begins to tremble, whether from terror or pain or adrenaline, she doesn't know. Sherlock is suddenly kneeling in front of her and is examining her stomach. She looks to see the four slashes scarring her stomach.

"Sherlock…?" she hears herself ask. He turns his gaze up to her face, his pale eyes bright and wired. "What happened?"

Sherlock grabs some supplies and begins cleaning and bandaging her wounds. It's a long while before he says anything, almost done bandaging her stomach before looking back at her. Her confusion-riddled hazel eyes lock onto his electric eyes.

"I don't know exactly." Sherlock's hands grip her shoulders and he says with an intense urgency that startles her, "But I wouldn't fall asleep until I figure it out."


End file.
